


Stranded

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22940614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: ‘Do you think we’re less than that – best friends? Or more?’John’s head pulled back, and the look he received suggested John was seriously wondering how someone so intelligent could be so stupid. ‘Well, definitely not less.’When stranded on a derelict barge at high tide, John and Sherlock reconsider their friendship.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 98
Kudos: 716
Collections: To Read Later





	Stranded

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [На мели](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138032) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



‘This is all your fault.’ 

Sherlock grimaced, tempted to snap a retort, but John hadn’t spoken with malice, not really. He just sounded resigned, as if getting stranded on a derelict barge in the Thames was par for the course. 

In all fairness, he wasn’t wrong. In a rare moment of absent-mindedness, Sherlock had forgotten one fundamental aspect of London’s biggest river: the damn thing was tidal. The barge had been on dry land when they went in not half an hour ago, chasing a lead. Now they were surrounded by rising, treacherous water, with no way to return to shore.

‘I’m not swimming,’ John stated, folding his arms and shaking his head.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to. The current’s fierce. It might be shallow, but it will be deeper than we are tall before long. A couple of metres at least.’ He watched John squint and rolled his eyes. ‘Two metres is about six-and-a half feet.’

‘Yeah, all right. I was getting there.’ John sighed, sitting down on the metal hood that covered the remnants of the boat’s engine.

Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement. Most of Britain still ran on some bastardised mixture of imperial and metric. The phrase “What’s that in old money?” often slipped through the lips of his acquaintances as they tried in vain to visualise distance or weight. ‘I feel I should apologise.’

John looked at him as if he’d grown another head, but a smile flirted at the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, probably. How long are we going to be stuck here?’

Sherlock pulled a face, knowing John wouldn’t like the answer. It took about nine hours for the water inundating the Thames at high tide to ebb back out to sea. ‘A while.’ He squinted up at the sky. It might only be six o’ clock, but the sun had set an hour ago. ‘It would be unwise to wait it out. We would be here until well past midnight.’

John shivered where he sat, bundling himself deeper in his coat as Sherlock picked his way across the deck towards him. His phone glowed in his hand, but its small torch offered only a narrow, bright beam. London may be lit up like a circus all around them, but out in the river’s channel it was surprisingly dark.

Perhaps that was why he fell.

Something caught his toe: solid, heavy, some kind of metal object no doubt essential in the running of the barge. A moment later he was sprawled out on the deck.

‘Fuck, Sherlock, are you all right?’ John was at his side in an instant, patting down the length of him, his hands getting tangled in the Belstaff as he checked him over for injuries. ‘Oi, say something?’

He swore. Hardly the best response but it seemed to offer John some reassurance, because he sighed in relief, arms outstretched to catch Sherlock as he pushed himself painfully to his knees. ‘All right? Anything broken?’

‘No,’ Sherlock grumbled, ignoring the sting of a few grazes. They would heal. Mostly, it was his pride that had been bruised. Squinting about, his gaze fell upon his phone. Or at least what was left of it. ‘Oh.’

‘What do you mean “oh”?’

‘Well, you remember how you said your mobile had no charge this morning, but you wouldn’t need it because you’d be with me, so you’d leave it back at the flat?’

‘Yeah…’

Sherlock picked up his phone, wincing as pieces of the screen fell away in a glittering cascade. The AMOLED was a distorted wreck, and judging by the way colours swirled across it before it went black, the circuitry had not enjoyed its impact with the floor either. 

‘That might have been a mistake.’

There were many things he admired about John. One of them was his ability to express a wide range of emotion with only a few crass words. He could sense it all. His disbelief at their bad luck, his frustration with their situation, his misfortune at having not charged his own phone and his sheer helplessness. 

He heard John’s deep breath and looked up to see him setting his jaw, giving that soldierly nod of acceptance that had got him through so much in the past. ‘So, no calling for help then?’

‘Not by the usual means, no.’

Cautiously, Sherlock got to his feet, wincing as his bruised knees complained. More than a little unsteady, he grimaced, trying to plot a course of action.

‘Woah, woah. Sit down.’ John’s strong hands gripped his shoulders, almost shoving him down onto his previous impromptu seat. ‘Did you hit your head?’

‘I think I managed to hit everything,’ he muttered, attempting to fight off the blush warming his cheeks. He felt stupid enough about the whole tide debacle. This really did add insult to injury.

John stood back, and Sherlock could hear him patting his pockets. In truth, the absence of light was almost eerie. He had grown used to London’s perennial glow, but out here it was a distant twilight, lending little more than definition to the shadows.

The sudden, bright flare of a pen torch made him screw up his eyes, blinking away the abrupt dance of spots across his vision. 

‘Sorry. Just look at me quick?’ John’s examination was brief, but thorough, and he nodded in satisfaction. ‘Your eyes are all right. No blood, either, which is something. You okay? Not sick or anything?’

‘No, I’m fine. I’m fine.’

Blue eyes looked at him, serious and determined, but there was no evidence to contradict Sherlock’s response. 

‘At least we have a bit of light.’ John gestured with the torch in his hand. ‘Better than nothing, considering your phone’s busted. Maybe we can find something to help us out? Something we missed?’

John helped him up, sticking close to his side in case he took another tumble. The narrow beam of the pen torch was not meant for searching in the dark, but they did what they could, scanning the deck for anything they could use.

Several footlockers revealed nothing but old tools. A flare gun brought a brief spark of hope, but there were no flares they could send up to call for help. Various spanners and wrenches were of little use, and the first aid kit lay empty and barren.

‘This place has been picked clean.’ John hauled open the doors to the hold, wincing as they clanged like a death knell in the peaceful night. ‘I might have seen some blankets down here somewhere, though.’

Sherlock followed him, wrinkling his nose at the faint, dripping sounds. They were lucky the barge was still water-tight. Another year or two, and the river would take it. Already the hull beneath his feet felt fragile, and all that greeted them was an empty, dark space where they would have once loaded the cargo.

‘It’s filthy,’ John grumbled.

‘Coal dust,’ Sherlock explained, trailing a finger over the wall and sniffing the sparkling black powder that marked his skin.

‘Could we light a fire with it? Something to let people know we’re here?’

‘Not unless you fancy setting the whole boat ablaze.’ He gestured to the motes that glittered in the torch beam. ‘It’s everywhere. Any ignition would likely cause an explosion.’

‘Great.’ John sighed, turning his attention to the tiny area that seemed to be the old crew’s living quarters. A clanky door sealed it off from the rest of the hold, and it squeaked its protest as John hauled it open. 

There wasn’t much, not even a bunk. Of course, the long-gone crew could dock at the river side for somewhere to sleep if needed. Instead there was a little table and a couple of cupboards.

John opened them, peering into their depths. ‘Aha! Blankets.’ He pulled free the tatty things, little more than rags, but better than nothing. Something chimed with the movement, and John’s eyes lit up as he reached into the cupboard and retrieved a bottle.

‘Whisky!’ He grinned. ‘Cheap, but…’ His shrug suggested he couldn’t care less. ‘It’ll help keep us warm.’

‘It will provide the illusion of warmth,’ Sherlock pointed out, but he was not about to deprive John of this comfort. It was a small bottle, and it was not like they could do anything but wait for either rescue or the tide’s slow ebb, whichever came first.

The boat made a soft groaning sound, its old metal twisting in the water’s grasp. At least the tide had not risen so high as to set them adrift. The keel seemed to be anchored deep in the river mud. Still, Sherlock did not fancy spending the night down here, surrounded by a watery grave and protected only by the vessel’s withering skin.

‘Upstairs?’ John suggested, apparently sharing his sentiment. ‘There’s plenty of crannies out of the wind.’

‘After you.’ Sherlock waved him up the narrow steps, following him out to emerge once more on deck. It did not take them long to find the best place. With the wind blowing from the south bank, they picked a spot on the northern side of the boat, penned in by various funnels and vents. This vessel had never been built for speed. Once, its deck would have opened to allow better access to the cargo hold for loading. Now, those metal panels remained closed, rusted shut and mercifully solid underfoot.

John worked quickly, moving with a soldier’s efficiency. They had both slept rough in the past, but John had done it sober in the desert. Most of the time, Sherlock had been high; comfort had not been a priority. Nor had warmth.

‘Put this over your shoulders. Back of your neck, especially,’ John ordered, holding out one of the blankets before draping another over his own shoulders. He wrapped it close around his frame before turning to the two that remained. ‘Sit and tuck your knees in towards your chest.’

Sherlock obeyed, nestling in the alcove they had found. John promptly sat beside him and tucked the blankets over them, jamming them in tight around their legs and sealing off any gaps. ‘Make sure you’re sitting on your coat, all right? Get as much cloth as you can between you and the boat, or it’ll just steal your heat.’

‘It’s not cold enough to kill us,’ Sherlock pointed out, ignoring the dark look John shot in his direction.

‘No, but it can still be bloody uncomfortable, and even when we get off this damn thing, we’re a long way from a warm bed.’ John sighed. ‘Don’t suppose there’s anyone who’ll notice we’re missing, is there?’

Sherlock shook his head, wincing as pain grumbled through his temples. He had brought John out here looking for clues: chasing a hunch. He had not anticipated finding any kind of imminent danger. Not, he acknowledged, that they were in much peril. The weather was calm and mild for the time of year. The boat’s wreck was marked by buoys, and besides, the nautical traffic was negligible. The river cruises did not bother with this rather dreary stretch of water.

‘Here.’ John nudged him with his elbow, offering him the bottle. He’d taken a swig, and Sherlock accepted it, following suit and raising an eyebrow in surprise. John had said it was cheap, but it wasn’t as rough as Sherlock had feared. In the end, there were worse ways to spend an evening. At least he had good company.

Around them, the water flowed, slapping the boat’s edge with playful waves. To their right, one of the bridges spanned the river, the traffic flowing over it a glimmering line of fairy lights in the distance. There were even a few stars marking the sky.

‘What exactly were you hoping to find out here, anyway?’ John asked, shifting deeper in their makeshift nest as Sherlock handed the bottle back.

‘One of my informants indicated they’d seen our suspect out on the river in this area. It seemed like his most obvious destination. I had hoped we’d find some evidence of… something.’ He shrugged, letting out a heavy sigh. ‘A meeting point, perhaps, or a drop off. However, if he is using this place, he’s being discrete. All in all, this has not been one of my more successful cases.’

He tried not to sulk. He was old enough to be beyond such childish tantrums, and it wasn’t as if this case had much to interest him anyway. A fairly standard murder at best: some kind of drug deal gone wrong, or so it seemed. Still, London currently had nothing better to offer. It was either this, or sit and stagnate in his boredom. He was a bad enough flatmate on a good day, and he would rather spare his friend the depths of his ennui as much as he could.

‘You’ll get it.’ John tapped Sherlock’s foot with his own – a comforting nudge of contact. ‘You always do. Well, almost always.’ His grin flashed in the dark, and Sherlock harrumphed. ‘Besides, at least we know where he wasn’t going. So, what are the alternatives?’

‘Possibly a meeting with another boat: a quick pass off of some kind, but why here? Why do it in part of the river that’s in constant flux and makes for dangerous sailing?’ Sherlock wrinkled his nose. ‘Of course, my informant could have been mistaken.’

‘Your network’s an unlikely lot, but they’re pretty reliable.’

‘True, but that leaves us with nothing but unanswered questions.’

At some point in their conversation, John had dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, his hair tickling his neck and his weight a comforting presence on the jut of bone. Without thought, Sherlock shuffled lower to better accommodate him. 

Perhaps it was the whisky lulling them into a comfortable sense of security, or maybe it was the dark permitting them to lower the masks they both held so firmly, but Sherlock found himself leaning his temple on John’s crown, his body relaxing despite the cold nibbling around them.

John huffed a laugh, his hair scraping Sherlock’s skin as he gave his head a tiny shake. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Waiting for the tide to go out,’ Sherlock frowned, suspecting John had not meant the question literally, but unable to think of another answer.

‘Not that, you prat. This – us.’

That last word sounded a bit strangled. If he didn’t know better, Sherlock would think John afraid. Of course, neither of them were particularly adept at discussing the somewhat nebulous realm of emotions. Sherlock distanced himself from the whole mess, and John was a soldier and an Englishman: raised to abide by certain, faulty standards of behaviour.

‘I keep wondering. Like, back at the beginning everyone just… assumed.’ There was a pause, and Sherlock realised John was snatching another sip of the whisky. He accepted it from him a moment later, hesitating before taking a gulp. Not because he needed the burn of it, but because it felt significant, somehow: a price to pay to keep John talking.

‘Now I tell them you’re my best mate. It’s just…’ John shifted, the blankets around them rustling as he shrugged. ‘Nothing, never mind.’

Sherlock wet his lips, his breath catching low in his chest. Once, he would have snatched at John’s dismissal, grateful for it. Emotional entanglement was not an advantage in his line of work, but such things did not ask permission. Insidious and soft, they snuck into you, remaining undetected, until you were so firmly ensnared that you could not escape. 

Not, he realised with some surprise, that he would want to. John was – he was _essential_. Sherlock could not imagine an existence without him. As it was, everyone knew that the best way to get to Sherlock was through John, and vice versa. They had become a gestalt: inseparable, enduring all the weaknesses their closeness offered while taking pleasure in none of the benefits.

No logic, no matter how tenuous, could support a continued existence in such a state.

Sherlock’s stomach fluttered, and he wrinkled his nose, trying to cringe back from his own, vulnerable words even as he spoke them. ‘Do you think we’re less than that – best friends? Or more?’

John’s head pulled back, and the look he received suggested John was seriously wondering how someone so intelligent could be so stupid. ‘Well, definitely not less.’ He said it with such confidence that Sherlock could not help but grin, his smile a sickle in the dark.

‘So more then?’ 

The air fell breathless, and Sherlock swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in his throat. John’s eyes were bright in the gloom, those thin lips parted around… something. It felt as if they stood on the brink of the inevitable, and it wasn’t the cold that had Sherlock shivering in his coat.

A dull “boom” at the side of the boat made them both jump, their heads whipping around in unison to peer into the twilight.

‘What the hell was that?’ John hissed. He sounded like a feral cat, furious that their solitude had been broken. Yet Sherlock could not offer any reassurance, not when he could hear the splash of water and the chime of metal as someone climbed onto the deck of the barge.

With a quiet curse, he pressed a hand to John’s shoulder, tucking them both deeper into the alcove. A few feet away, a gleam of light swayed, peeling apart the dark that had sheltered them in its folds.

Breath held silent in his chest, Sherlock peered around the edge of the metalwork, taking a moment to recognise who stood a bare dozen paces away. Lewis Leach, the murder suspect.

Scruffy long hair trailed over his ears, flopping in his face. He didn’t look old, perhaps in his twenties, but it was the bag that he carried in his other hand that caught Sherlock’s attention. A duffel practically bursting at the seams.

The gleam of something at his belt made Sherlock hesitate. At his side, John tensed, his breath hissing at the sight of the gun barely hidden by the fold of Leach’s t-shirt.

An unfortunate problem, but not an insurmountable one. John may have left his phone at home, but he had not stepped out onto London’s streets without his Sig, not when they were on a case like this.

Quickly, Sherlock turned back to John, jerking his head towards the far side of the boat. John pulled a face, but didn’t argue. They knew each other too well to need words – had done just this, or something similar, more times than Sherlock cared to count. The two of them moved like a well-oiled machine, Sherlock remaining where he was to give John time to creep off into the shadows.

A moment later he got to his feet, letting the blankets fall to the deck as his coat settled around him. The rush of fabric caught Leach’s attention, just as he’d hoped, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow as the bag fell to the floor with a solid thud, allowing Leach to reach for his gun.

‘Who the fuck are you?!’

Sherlock tilted his head, taking in all Leach’s appearance had to offer, from the sweat gleaming on his upper lip to the unreliable twitch of the pistol in his grip. It seemed he had been sampling the merchandise. He might not be able to see inside the bag, but Sherlock would bet it was full of meth amphetamines, or some similar concoction. No doubt the package held significant street value; certainly worth killing over.

‘There’s nothing waiting for you, you know. No payoff. Not after what happened to Dennis Neville.’

He hid a smirk as Leach’s gaze darted towards the hood of the engine, giving away exactly where the money he had been hoping to collect would be hiding. Sherlock had searched the cavity to the best of his ability, but something must have slipped his notice. Either that or the tale he was spinning had some truth to it.

‘You’re a wanted suspect in a murder investigation. You think your contacts want anything to do with you?’

‘Fuck off!’ Leach spat, pressing the gun forward and wetting his lips, wild-eyed. ‘That’s not. Nev got – he got –’ A spasm of grief-cum-fury flashed over Leach’s face. Sherlock could see the tipping point there, in his gaze.

‘Greedy? Or scared?’ Sherlock cocked his head and took one, cautious step forward. ‘Either he wanted more money or he wanted out. And you killed him. It was no clean execution either. Did he beg, after you shot him in the gut. Did he plead? Did he cry as you pointed the gun at his face?’

‘SHUT UP!’

John moved like a lightning strike, leaping from the shadows and smacking all his weight into Leach. The gun went flying and Sherlock lunged, stamping on its sleek form before it could pitch over the edge of the deck and into the Thames.

Leach grappled with John, but it was the useless, uncoordinated scrabbles of someone lost to reason. John avoided one wild, swinging blow and jammed his arm over Leach’s throat. Instantly, those hands were clawing at the sleeve of his jacket. Leach was too distracted by instinct to stop and think of a way to escape: too busy sobbing – hacked off, awful sounds – to spit the curses Sherlock could see in the feral gleam of his gaze.

‘Here.’ Sherlock snatched up some old rope, mouldering but still strong, before tossing it to John. ‘I’ll get his feet.’ He’d rather have Leach on his front with his hands behind him, but getting him to cooperate was a distant fantasy. He was far too likely to go for either the gun or the river, and if they weren’t careful, he could drag one or both of them over with him into the depths.

John worked quickly, and by the time Sherlock had Leach’s feet hitched together, he’d already patted him down, checking various pockets for anything dangerous or useful.

‘Here.’ He grinned as he handed Sherlock the phone. ‘Guess you’d better call Greg, unless you fancy getting in that.’ He gestured to the dingy that had been tenuously lashed to the side of the barge. It bobbed around in the river like a toy, barely big enough for two, let alone him, John and a thrashing prisoner.

‘I think not.’

He opened the phone – a tatty little burner, from the looks of it – and dialled Lestrade’s number.

‘Yeah, who is this?’’ Lestrade sounded harassed: another long day and another late night.

‘We’re on a barge in the Thames near Wandsworth Bridge. Be prompt. We’ve made an arrest.’

‘Sherlock? What –’

He hung up before Lestrade could get a word in edgeways. If he gave the DI the chance, he would ask every question under the sun, and Sherlock had more pressing matters to deal with.

Rescuing the plastic camp light from where it lay drunkenly on the deck, he toed at the duffel bag. The zips parted with a grating hiss, revealing the white bricks within, each wrapped in polythene. Forensics would be able to tell them more, but it was nothing as benign as sugar, and Sherlock took a grim pleasure in knowing his deductions had been correct.

‘What are you doing?’ John asked as he turned towards the engine hood. He watched the prisoner without faltering, pinning him into a corner with the beady eye of his gun pointed straight at him. Leach was gnashing his teeth, his expression thunderous and dazed, but he made no move to try and get away. Perhaps he knew it could very well be the last thing he ever did.

‘When I mentioned money, he looked in this direction. This is a drop off. Someone’s picking these up for distribution – or they would have been. Though if they have any knowledge of what our friend’s been up to, they’ll avoid this place like the plague.’

‘Greg’s going to be pissed,’ John muttered. ‘Drugs aren’t his division.’

‘No, but murder is. He’ll just have to learn to share with his friends in the narcotics team.’

John snorted a mirthless laugh, half-drowned out by the clang of metal shifting on metal. The old engine was a mess of rust and pistons, and Sherlock squinted into its dark confines.

‘Torch?’ He held out an imperious hand, only to look at John when he didn’t oblige.

‘Back pocket,’ John replied, taking neither his eyes or his aim away from the prisoner. ‘You’ll have to get it yourself.’ There was a hint of a smirk in his voice, and Sherlock thought he saw the faint, flirtatious curl of a smile, there one minute and gone the next.

If Sherlock’s fingers lingered a touch too long in the humid depths of John’s pocket, he would never admit it. Something still hummed between them, an electric charge half-hidden beneath the seriousness of the situation and the thrill of another perpetrator brought to justice. It made his heart swell, but Sherlock shook it away, trying to focus on the task at hand.

The beam cleaved through the shadows, brighter and more focussed in the confined space. It cast its glow on cobwebs and grime and rust, but there was no sign of anything like payment: no bank notes or precious goods. Just an empty shell of unfulfilled promises.

‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Just as I suspected. It seems this whole mess starts and ends with him. This time, at least.’

He continued to prowl around the ship, looking at it with new eyes in the glow of the lantern. There was not much to see, but a few salient details finally emerged. Most notable was the clean floor of the hold. While the walls may be thick with the coal dust of cargoes long since delivered, someone had put in the effort to make sure there would be no sediment in which to leave the damning evidence of their footprints. 

Soon, the distant roar of an engine reached his ears, and a quick glance along the river revealed the red and blue lights of a police craft. The experienced pilots navigated the changeable waters with ease. The turn of the tide remained a distant prospect. For now, the water would be deep enough to bear the sleek, shallow-keeled vessels to their side.

A handful of minutes later they pulled up, officers swarming the deck with quick efficiency. Lestrade stood among them, clambering aboard with a great deal less grace. His expression locked into grim lines, and he spread his hand in a helpless demand for information.

‘Lewis Leach. Your murderer.’ Sherlock stopped a few feet from Lestrade, watching the officers take custody of the killer, who snarled and swore, but said nothing of use. John had hidden his gun from sight when they arrived, and now he stood with his arms crossed, observing the proceedings with mild interest.

‘There are drugs in the bag. Some kind of amphetamine, if my suspicions are correct. His partner either got greedy or wanted out.’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, news of what happened must have reached his contact. This should have been an anonymous drop-off.’

‘Should have?’ Lestrade asked, eyebrow raised.

‘There’s no money. Nor has there been any sign of anyone approaching the vessel since we arrived.’

‘And what, exactly, are you doing out here anyway?’

‘Stakeout.’ John’s fib was smooth and poised, as if it had hovered on his tongue for several minutes. ‘We got a tip from one of Sherlock’s informants. We didn’t want to waste your time if it turned out to be a false lead, so we thought we’d lie low and see what happened.’

‘When he appeared alone with incriminating evidence in hand, it seemed wise to make a citizen’s arrest.’ Sherlock met John’s eyes in a brief flicker of mute communication. Lestrade would find out the truth of it later – that their so-called stakeout was, in fact, them getting stranded due to Sherlock’s own stupidity – but for now John was sparing him that small humiliation.

Lestrade sighed, his teeth clenched hard behind his lips as if he were choking back a dozen complaints about procedure: nothing they hadn’t heard before. At last, he swallowed them down, shaking his head and jerking his thumb towards the second of three boats that currently bobbed at the side of the barge. ‘Get on,’ he ordered. ‘Let my blokes have a clear look at the scene. The drugs team will want in on it too. I need to get back to the station and tell them.’

‘Do you need our statements?’ John asked.

Sherlock’s small grumble of complaint went unnoticed, and Lestrade’s expression softened as he rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah, we will, but it can wait. Let’s deal with him first. He can kick his heels in custody until we’re ready to start picking this all apart. Let’s get you two home.’

The journey to shore was over in minutes, the smack of the river against the hull their only farewell before Lestrade jerked his thumb towards his car. ‘Come on, then.’

‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to the station?’ Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at the dour look he received.

‘Can’t do much until they book the bastard. I’ve got time, unless you’d rather wait for a cab?’

‘No!’ John interrupted before Sherlock could say anything. ‘I’m freezing. I’d like to get home.’

‘Not exactly dressed for a stakeout,’ the DI commented, and Sherlock was reminded anew that Lestrade was not as stupid as he looked. Still, he seemed to require no explanation as they all bundled into the vehicle and began to work their way through London’s night time traffic.

He and John sat on opposite sides of the car, the stretch of the back seat yawning between them. Normally, a comfortable silence would fledge, but this time was different. Sherlock could feel it in the tension of the air and the keening, insistent awareness of John’s frame so close to his. His thoughts, usually slower and satisfied after the solving of a case, continued to collide in a riot of colour, returning again and again to the conversation Leach had interrupted with his arrival.

What had John been about to say in response? What had he been about to do? A whole new realm of possibility had unfurled between them, only to remain unacknowledged. Now, Sherlock’s pulse tripped and hammered in his chest, desperate with anxious exhilaration.

Nor was he the only one. He could feel, with some sixth, very human sense, how tense John was nearby, though they shared no physical contact. It came off him in waves, and he could see him in the reflection of the window, staring at the passing city without really seeing it.

Was he watching Sherlock watching him, their reflections observing when they could not? 

Even Lestrade appeared to realise something was up. Sherlock didn’t miss the way his gaze kept flickering to the rear-view mirror, his brow furrowed and his eyes thoughtful. It was not the traffic behind him that caught his attention, of that Sherlock was certain. He watched them, no doubt observing far more than Sherlock would care to reveal.

It had to be the strangest car ride he had ever endured, and by the time they pulled up at the door of 221, he felt ready to jump out of his skin, every nerve sparking and every breath too shallow to fulfil his needs. 

He leapt from the car, his brief thanks to Lestrade falling from his lips as he reached for his keys. John was slower, taking the time to promise the DI a chat at the pub within a few days.

Lestrade’s vehicle purred as it departed, but the sound was not nearly so welcome as the steady, almost predatory pace of John’s footsteps as he approached, slow and thoughtful. Anticipation raced up Sherlock’s back as he fumbled with the lock. He quickly nudged the door open, desperate to be inside and away from whatever prying eyes may loiter on the street.

Baker Street welcomed them, and John closed the door in their wake, sealing them within the sanctuary of their home.

How many times had they both stood here after a case, breathless with laughter or sluggish with exhaustion? There had always been a faint undercurrent of something more, but this time – This time there was nothing subtle about it. 

Sherlock leant against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, watching John prowl across the small intervening space. He moved with a lazy, casual confidence that sent Sherlock’s heart high in his throat. His hands shook, his mouth suddenly dry. It wasn’t fear, nothing like it, but emotion still filled him to the brim, overflowing in each unsteady breath.

John came to a halt, toe-to-toe and close enough that Sherlock could smell the fragrance clinging to his skin: fresh air and hints of soap. He filled Sherlock’s personal space with his presence, leaving no room for anything else: all thoughts of the case had fled. How could they claim any of his attention when this – John – was right in front of him?

‘So, more then?’ Sherlock husked, repeating his earlier question. Back then, the river had held them both in its clutches. Now, even though Sherlock knew they were both on solid ground, the world still felt as if were moving, dancing to the soft suck and swell of the water.

John’s grin could have lit up the whole city. Only the heat in his eyes outshone it, his gaze strafing over Sherlock’s skin and raising shivers of desire in its wake.

‘Definitely more,’ John murmured, his eyelashes fluttering closed as he leaned up and claimed Sherlock’s lips with his own.

Heat and warmth: a simple gesture, but to Sherlock it seemed like so much more. It was as if the vast, far-flung circuit of their existence finally connected, the last piece fitting into place to bring it all to glorious, electrical life. His nerves shimmered with sensation, his fingers clutching at John’s coat and smoothing down his back. John nudged closer, kicking his feet apart and insinuating himself in the vee of Sherlock’s thighs, making him groan in tremulous longing.

John’s weight against him was an addictive burden, completely trusting, and Sherlock’s head swam. For once, his thoughts lay silent, brought to a stand-still by the man who kissed him with such obvious, eager passion.

It had always been more than friendship. This had felt inevitable from the moment they met, when the world tilted just so to bring their lives into one another’s orbit. 

One journey had reached its end, and now they took the first steps on the road into their next adventure.

A life shared, together.

**Author's Note:**

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